An escape to the sea

We escaped to the sea. Just me and my daughter, my sister, her son and her dog. She found us a chalet behind the dunes of a small coastal village on the Norfolk coast and we drove five long hours to meet them there on Monday afternoon.

I had been relishing this break, a few days away from the frenetic pace of life, a chance to press pause and to breathe in the sea air and walk on the sands.

It’s funny how quickly I acclimatise to life by the sea, it draws me like a magnetic north. I am lured up quiet lanes that are flanked by dunes and wild tansy, and end with a massive slice of sky, the light and space an indication that beyond lies the coastline of our land and the sea. The pull is strong and the urge to see the waves and the curving scythe of pale sand disappearing into the far distance as necessary as breath is to the body.

The North Sea is a cold sea, with challenging rip tides and strong currents. Here the waves are green and glassy when the sun shines through them, foam crusted and fierce they rage at the shore and the roar becomes a white noise that soothes the soul.

We take ourselves to the beach each day, we stop at the Airstream caravans which are now a cafe, and order lattes, sitting on the benches in the sunshine while we drink them. I took a bag with art supplies and books but rarely touched them, I found myself looking out to sea at the rhythmical swell of the waves, and the smooth, glossy dark heads of inquisitive seals that surfaced to peruse the handful of visitors sitting on their beach - I wonder what they must think of us? There were sanderlings and terns too, and we learned from an artist we met on the beach that they were Little Terns, endangered birds who had chosen to nest just up the beach and who were being protected by an RSPB warden. The terns flew together in a small flock, spiralling and diving like missiles into the water, their elegant and defined shape like white arrows against the indigo sea.

We spent our days on the beach and our evenings (after a good meal in the local pub) exploring the dunes, drawn to the old fishermen’s huts that sat in a cluster on the top of the sandy cliff, dangerously close to the edge. I wonder how long it will be until these also meet their fate and fall to the shore below, as much of this coastline is susceptible to constant, and worrying erosion.

Only a few months ago, the road collapsed onto the beach below and the cafe that was in danger of collapsing, had to be demolished. As beautiful as this stretch of coast is, it must be a huge worry for the lovely people who live here on such a fragile landscape.

I came to think that there is an actual art in doing nothing, and taking pleasure in the simple things. Being in nature, enjoying a good coffee and conversation, watching birds and wildlife. All of these things came about very naturally for us, having nothing else to do or think about and the pace of life was very gentle and calming.

I have very different scenery where i live, being close to the moors and open countryside but I realised that I can still create these pauses in my daily life if I make the effort to include them.

I haven’t been going for walks like I used to, swept up in the usual melee of family life and chores and work. When did this stop? I can’t remember, but I know it’s been several weeks since I spent time in nature on a regular basis, taking time away from screens and allowing myself to stop thinking about work or what needs taking care of at home.

I realise it is essential to include these moments into my daily habits, and I have come home from my short trip with the enthusiasm to make space in my day for these quiet pauses. An hour to walk up to the moors, or ten minutes sitting quietly in the garden listening to the birds. I realise how important it is to my health and wellbeing, and how easy it is to discard these moments of self care for other endless tasks or chores. It’s a tiresome and unrewarding way to live if we only fill our time with what we think we should be doing.

Having returned to Yorkshire I am deeply missing the sound of the ocean. I miss watching the seabirds and seeing the maritime lights twinkling on the horizon of the sea, a shimmering expanse of heliotrope silk that catches the fading sunset, shot through with skeins of coral pink. I miss the quiet of the little village, the tall stalks of candy pink hollyhocks and bright smiling faces of golden yellow sunflowers bobbing above picket fences. I miss the sandy lane and the call of the oyster catchers as they fly over the beach. I came home somewhat reluctantly, not wanting to leave it all behind, but feeling so much the richer for the time I was lucky enough to spend there.